Paper Roses by Amanda Cabot Page B

What was ranching other than being at the beck and call of a herd of ornery black steers? There was more satisfaction to be found in setting one broken leg than in all the money that the Bar C reaped from selling those critters.
    Shadow whinnied, as if he agreed. “Who do you suppose set Sarah’s leg?” Clay asked. It was probably crazy, talking to his horse, but there was no one else around. A man might not crave the constant chatter females provided, but he did like to exercise his vocal cords occasionally. “Whoever it was, he must not have been very skilled. She shouldn’t limp that much.”
    Clay shook his head while his eyes searched the horizon, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was no point in thinking about Sarah Dobbs. Even if she did remain in Ladreville for more than a week, it wasn’t as if Clay could do anything about her limp. Not now. He had read about rebreaking and setting bones that hadn’t knit properly, but it was reported to be a very painful procedure with no guarantee of success. Clay wasn’t the man to try that or any other surgical procedure. Not anymore.
    Cattle were his future, and they would be until the day Austin’s murderer paid for his deeds. On that day, Clay would pack up Pa and head East, knowing that his brother’s death had been avenged. When Clay shook the dust of Ladreville from his boots that day, it would be for the last time. Then and only then would he think about doctoring.
    He flicked the reins to turn Shadow. “Let’s go, boy.” When he reached the highest point on the ranch, Clay slowed the horse to a walk. Though Shadow loved to run, there was no point in exhausting him when they had another section of the ranch to cover before dinner. They’d rest here on Clay’s favorite vantage point for a few minutes, then continue in search of those pesky cattle.
    Clay needed to clear his head, and this was one spot that never failed to do exactly that. From here, he could see the road, the neighboring ranch houses, and the entire town of Ladreville. From this distance, there were no cattle in sight. From this distance, the town and countryside appeared to be a scene of perfect tranquility. Best of all, from this distance, there was no hint that a murderer walked the streets or that ancient rivalries divided the townspeople.
    Taking a deep breath, Clay started to turn, then stopped. When he had first arrived on the bluff, he had noticed the doctor’s buggy crossing the river. It was such an ordinary occurrence that Clay had attached no significance to it. But now, if the horse’s casual grazing was any indication, the buggy wasn’t moving. That was odd. Normally Herman drove quickly, knowing that even apparently mild symptoms could turn dangerous in a short time and that when people summoned the doctor, they wanted him there that very moment. Clay squinted. There was no doubt about it. The horse, the buggy, and Dr. Herman Adler were going nowhere.
    “C’mon, Shadow.” Clay’s horse needed little encouragement to gallop, and within a few minutes, he had reached Ladreville’s only practicing physician. As Clay had feared when he’d seen the motionless buggy, something was wrong. Herman was slumped in the seat, the reins fallen from his hands.
    “Herman, are you all right?” The older man’s face had lost its normal ruddy hue, and his gray hair was disheveled, as if the doctor had run his hands through it. That bothered Clay almost as much as his colleague’s pallor, for Herman was a notorious dandy.
    The man winced. “It’ll pass. It always does.”
    With a trained eye, Clay assessed the man’s color, the grip he maintained on the edge of the seat, and the way he refused to open his eyes. “Where is the pain?” Clay asked, seeking confirmation of his diagnosis.
    Herman winced again. “Behind my eyes.” He took a deep breath in an obvious attempt to lessen the pain, then added, “It’s worse today than before.”
    Repetitive incidents.